


Just Off The Cay of Reason

by darksylvia



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Crack, Gen, M/M, The Odyssey References, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 16:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20951453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvia/pseuds/darksylvia
Summary: Captain Flint gets turned into a parrot.





	Just Off The Cay of Reason

**Author's Note:**

> This is such crack, and thus is set in a nebulous time outside canon plotlines. The Flint/Silver relationship feels, trust-wise, post-sharkdate, but Mrs. Barlow is still alive, Eleanor is still in charge in New Providence, and The Woodes Rogers has not yet Hit The Fan.
> 
> Unbetaed, because I have no idea where this fandom is hanging out these days or who I would even ask.
> 
> Also, if you want to hear a parrot swearing (and who doesn’t?!) go here: https://youtu.be/igonJfGuwAA

Flint was good at making people angry. See: the entire British Empire. However, for the most part all they were able to do to him was try to kill him, and he was fairly adept by now at not dying. This time, however, he’d angered a witch. A real witch, not the kind that muttered at the feral animals in her yard and did complicated things with bones, no. This one muttered at feral animals in her yard, could turn men _ into _ said animals—and had no problems using bones to channel her anger. 

So here Captain Flint was.

“Fuck the witch! Fuck the witch!” he said, and then yanked on Silver’s earring.

“Ow,” he said, and “Ripping my earlobe open won’t make you a man again.”

“Fuck!” Flint said.

“It must be said that I agree, but with you like this, it falls to me to do the heavy lifting both literally and figuratively.”

Silver rubbed his temples, nearly dislodging Flint who nipped his wrist, and tried to think. At least they’d made it back to the ship, and the crew had had the good sense to stay on the beach getting drunk.

“As far as I know, there’s only one person who can undo this, and that is the person who did it in the first place.” Silver paused, thinking about her black-eyed squint, and the rage she’d managed to put into the flick of her wrists.

“Witch,” said Flint, in an angry parrot mutter.

“Precisely,” Silver said. “She’ll need at least a day to cool her temper. One can’t reason with rage. This means we need an excuse to stay here for that day, and we don’t have enough rum for that.” Silver thought about this. 

“Nothing for it. I’ll have to break something on the ship.”

Flint’s squawk was wordless, but nevertheless conveyed what would have no doubt been a very eloquent “no”.

“Something mendable in a day or two, don’t give me that look,” said Silver. “It’s not as if I can tell the crew we have to stay because their captain is a parrot.”

“Blackbeard,” said Flint. 

“Yes, alright, not the sails or rigging, in case we need to make a getaway. Although those would have been the easiest to mend. Not the easiest to make accidental wreckage of, though.”

“Bilge,” said Flint.

“What, and accidentally sink us? That seems much more precarious than the rigging.”

“Quick,” said Flint. 

“Yes, but what about if we sail away and take on water?”

“Pump.” At this, Flint seemed to lose interest in harassing Silver and flew off with surprising agility for a creature that had only had wings for several hours, to perch among the rigging.

“Fine,” muttered Silver, making his way below deck. “This is fine. Leaving me, once again, to do something not in my best interest for the sake of a captain who has got himself turned into a _ parrot_.” Here he paused for a moment to truly feel the utter absurdity of that statement. Then he shook his head and continued down. Best not to think too hard about it. Not now, at least, when there were bilges to mildly damage.

He waited half a day before he told the crew about the bilge’s _ malfunction_, just as they were losing the light. This was by design—with most of the rum inside them instead of in the near-empty barrels, they had no hope of repairing anything until they’d slept it off. This bought Silver more time. He fervently hoped that the witch would _ also _ sleep off the majority of her anger and see the merits of changing their captain back in order to get rid of them. She couldn’t turn them _ all _ into parrots, could she? 

Wait, _ could _ she? 

Well, it didn’t matter. Either they got Flint back or he, and possibly his entire crew, lived out the rest of their days on this island as tropical birds. Frankly, the latter sounded more relaxing than pirating.

The next morning, Silver hiked—laboriously—back up into the jungle, over the rise from the beach, to the place where he and Flint had found both the freshwater that they’d been seeking and the witch that they had not. Flint came with him, but after attempting to ride on his shoulder, found the ride not to his liking, and had flounced off into the canopy. Silver could hear Flint muttering to himself up there as he gripped waterweed and hauled himself over a boulder. The idea of living out his days as a parrot became more attractive by the second. 

When he approached the spring, at first he thought the house had vanished, and had a terrible moment where he saw his future stretch out before him as the defacto-captain, with a murderous parrot perched on one shoulder, attempting to give the men orders. But no, there the house was, tucked into the curve of the cliff behind it. 

Silver ducked his head into the spring and drank, then stuck his whole head in—the hike had been sweaty and insect-filled—then he got to his feet and stumped around toward the house. It was more of a shack, really, but a rather clean and neat one. He paused in the small clearing before it, wondering how one went about _ not _ startling a witch, but he needn’t have bothered: she appeared in the doorway.

“Have you come to make amends?” she asked.

“Of course, dear lady—” he started, but stopped when she cackled—_ cackled _ !— at him. The thing about the witch was that she wasn’t young or old, beautiful or ugly. She didn’t fit any cliché—she wasn’t _ trying _ to look like a witch, so it was perversely _ more _ clear that she was one. If she hadn’t been dressed in colourful and carefully sewn rags, she could have been any unassuming woman in Madi’s village. But of course, they didn’t cackle, usually.

“You cannot make me amends,” she said, finally. “I don’t want anything you have to offer.” She paused, and Silver waited. He knew she wasn’t finished. “But I will tell you several things for the price your captain has already paid.”

“We’d really rather you turned him back into his original form—” began Silver.

“No,” she said. “The first thing I will tell you is that he will fail in his most dearly held intention.”

This produced an angry squawk from Flint, who swooped out of a nearby tree and headed straight for the witch. She gave him a look of such stern reproach that he stopped his attack and wheeled to perch on Silver’s shoulder instead. Silver thought that was rather more impressive than turning Flint into a parrot had been in the first place.

“The second is that he will succeed in another venture, beyond his wildest dreams.”

“Tripe,” said Flint.

“And third?” said Silver, mostly to shut Flint up, but also because these things always came in threes, didn’t they?

“And third,” she said, with a stern look for Silver this time, “If he eats a seed from the tree of Ramón, he will become a man once more.”

“So you won’t change him back?” asked Silver.

“Can’t, won’t,” she shrugged and started to turn away. “Perhaps I like him better as a parrot.”

“Fuck,” said Flint, but he sounded more dispirited than angry.

Silver wasn’t as rash as Flint, but he also wasn’t in the habit of taking ‘no’ for an answer, and there had been plenty of ‘no’ in his life—he had just sidestepped it until he found a ‘yes.’ So he stepped forward, meaning to follow the witch and ask her a few more pointed questions in the most charming manner he knew, except...the house was no longer there.

“It’s gone for you, too, isn’t it?” Silver asked Flint. He took Flint’s strange little gobble-growl as agreement, and, with a sigh, turned around to make his way back down to the beach.

“This is why we don’t fuck with witches,” said Silver. “What the hell is a seed from the tree of Ramón? Well, someone in New Providence likely knows it, with all the trade coming through there. We’ll fix the bilge, get under sail before the men are over their hangovers, and I’ll tell them you’re sick in your quarters." Flint did not make any response to this, which either meant he was thinking hard, or had decided Silver had things well enough in hand for now.

-

Billy did not like Flint the Parrot. Silver might have found this amusing—well, he _ did _find it amusing—if Flint's new shape weren't so inconvenient.

“Can’t you keep that thing in a cage?” he asked Silver, after Flint had winged behind Billy missing him by a hair's breadth and squawking just to make him flinch.

“He’s his own parrot,” said Silver. “And he’s free to leave at any time.” He said this pointedly at Flint, who muttered unintelligibly and flew to the crow’s nest.

They were one day out from New Providence, and every crew member but Silver seemed to be finding a Flintless existence somewhat relaxing. They hadn’t taken any prizes, but then, they were in waters that most merchants avoided both because of the pirates and the lack of inhabited islands.

“Tell me, Billy,” said Silver. “Have you ever heard of the Tree of Ramón?”

“No,” said Billy. “What’s that?”

“I was hoping you knew,” said Silver.

Billy shrugged. “Ask Horace. He knows edible plants.”

“Yes, I know it,” says Horace, when Silver cornered him. He was new, defected from a Spanish merchant ship a few months ago. “It grows in the jungle.”

“Which jungle, precisely?” asked Silver.

“All of them,” said Horace. “Any place with enough water, probably. The fruits are so big they can knock a man out if he stands under one as it falls.”

“Are you able to draw it?” asked Silver.

Soon, Silver was in possession of a sketch of the tree that a witch had told him would turn his captain back into a man. When Silver had gone looking for adventure as a stowaway, he could not have predicted this.

-

When they finally made port in Nassau the men were mostly used to the presence of a parrot sitting on Silver’s shoulder (when said parrot wasn’t sulking in the rigging). Walking through the market was another matter, however. He got a lot of interested stares, a trail of curious children, and no less than five offers to buy Flint off him. To the offers, Flint managed to make a parrot’s throat produce any number of creative blasphemies. For the children, however, he sang an off-key pirate shanty and preened when the children cheered, then nipped at Silver’s earring until he scattered a few coins among the outstretched hands. They wanted to know where Flint was, as well, but he told them the same fiction: ill, in his quarters on the ship.

“Though, you can’t stay there forever,” murmured Silver, as they made their way toward Eleanor’s. “Shall we say you’re with Mrs. Barlow? Shall we _ tell _ Mrs. Barlow the whole tale?” He felt Flint shift his weight, but he did not comment. Silver let him stew about it. With any luck, Eleanor would have a box of the seeds they needed sitting in her warehouse and this could all be ended this afternoon.

-

Eleanor did not have the seed, nor had she heard of it.

“The island’s been nearly clear-cut for farms,” she said. “And you pirates only take the cargo you recognise. Last month, an idiot left twenty cartons of mangoes to sink into the sea. I could have killed him, and _not_ just because of the cost.”

Flint gave a derisive squawk. Eleanor eyed the parrot, but didn’t comment.

“Do you know of anyone who could procure this seed?”

“I could put the word out. But I don’t think any of the ships will make it a priority unless you’re willing to make it worth their effort.”

“Greedy fucks,” said Flint.

“Yes, well, they _ are _ pirates,” said Silver absently. “What about someone who knows where they can be found or bought?”

Eleanor straightened her shoulders and eyed them both with a new layer of misgiving. “Ask a settler, or a native. I’m a businesswoman, not a naturalist.” Then she walked briskly off to resolve some argument between a drunk pirate and a whore.

“So, Mrs. Barlow?”

“Fuck,” said Flint.

-

To Give Mrs. Barlow all the credit she clearly deserved, she did not question his sanity, nor close the door in his face.

Her face showed consternation and perhaps some skepticism, although she was quite good at giving very little away. Instead, after Silver explained their situation, as smoothly as possible under the circumstances, she transferred her gaze to Flint, perched on Silver’s shoulder.

Then she said, “Tell me my husband’s name and I’ll know it’s you.”

“Thomas,” said Flint. Mrs. Barlow did not flinch back, but Silver rather thought she wanted to.

“Come in, both of you.”

Silver felt exceedingly dirty and out of place in Mrs. Barlow’s cottage, sitting at her table, handling her fine china while she served tea. Flint clearly felt no such thing, even as a parrot, and he hopped onto the table in order to peck at the biscuits Mrs. Barlow had laid out.

“I’m almost certain that’s not the sort of thing parrots should eat,” said Silver mildly.

Flint nipped in his general direction and went back to the biscuit. On the ship, he had fed Flint fruit and bread, and had let him take whatever he wanted from Silver’s own plate, but truly had no idea what parrots ate in their natural homes. He wondered if Flint had been eating insects or similar when he was sulking in the rigging.

Mrs. Barlow transferred her gaze to Silver and he decided perhaps her expression of mild astonishment was just what she always wore when it came to Flint. 

“I don’t know the tree or the seed. But I can find out. There are several native slaves among the farmers. I give them medicines and other things from my garden on market days.”

“I am delighted to hear that. I wonder if I might also imply Flint is here with you in the meantime. He cannot stay ill on the ship forever before there are questions.”

“You may,” said Mrs. Barlow, just as Flint said, “No.” 

“Why not?” asked Silver.

“Dangerous.”

“It’s always dangerous,” said Mrs. Barlow. “Whether you’re here or not, New Providence knows who I am—the pirates know you visit me, and the villagers think I’m a witch.” She laughed. “Were I were a real witch, I could just change you back.”

“That would be useful,” agreed Silver. “Though the skill to turn a man into a parrot in the first place would, perhaps, be even more useful.”

“There _ are _ several people I think would better serve the world as parrots,” agreed Mrs. Barlow with a half-smile.

Silver laughed, Flint made a little coughing sound that was also perhaps a laugh, and they finished their tea in amicable discussion of who wanted them dead a this moment.

When he set his cup away from him, he asked, “How soon can you ask the natives? The men are happy for a rest, I think, but only until they’ve spent their portions, which won’t be more than two days, three at most, after which I will have to lie much more creatively.”

“Market day is tomorrow,” said Mrs. Barlow. “If the seed is available here on New Providence, you’ll have it soon enough. If it’s not, you’ll have to go fetch it, and that will put you to sea anyway.”

“Excellent points,” said Silver. “I will take my leave of you, then, and return tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll arrange to have the ship restocked.”

Flint was perched on the back of a table chair. 

“Will you be staying or accompanying me, captain?” asked Silver, as he stood.

Flint cocked his head in a way that was so distinctly Flint-like, he and Mrs. Barlow both laughed. 

“With you. Fucker.” He hopped onto the table and then waddled over to Silver. After a moment, Silver put his arm out and Flint picked his way delicately up it to settle on his shoulder, in what had already become his usual spot. Then he yanked on Silver’s earring in—dare he think it—an affectionate manner. 

“Until tomorrow.” Silver swept Mrs. Barlow an overly elaborate bow in order to make Flint squawk at his sudden movement. She nodded her head regally at him, her eyes amused at the figure they must cut.

-

The next morning saw him fulfilling his traditional work as a quartermaster, which was now fairly easy for him. He knew every merchant on the island, and by evening there was nothing left to do but organise the men to receive and stow the supplies in the morning. 

By early afternoon he was sitting at Eleanor’s, killing time until he could go back to Mrs. Barlow, fending off prostitutes, and sipping his rum sparingly. Flint sat like a brightly coloured gargoyle on his shoulder. He didn’t say very much, but he did run a sparse commentary on the inhabitants of the establishment. Then someone sat down across from them.

“Pig-fucking bastard,” said Flint.

“My, he has certainly learned a pirate’s lingo, hasn’t he?” asked Jack Randall. “Assuming it _ is _ a he.”

“Jack,” said Silver, all while seeing the multiple ways this could go horribly wrong spiralling out before him if Jack so much as hinted at any of the times Silver had double-crossed Flint. He needed to get rid of him, quickly. “I’m not discussing business tonight. I’ve just spent the entire day seeing to it. So I hope this is just a social visit.” He should have stayed on the ship.

“It’s not urgent,” said Jack. “I was merely wondering where your illustrious captain had gotten to. Rumour has it that he’s down with a light case of yellow fever, or depending on who you’re talking to, the French Disease. They do say the madness manifests slowly.”

“Poxy shite,” said Flint.

“For a parrot, he’s very verbose. How many words does he know?” asked Jack.

“_Many_,” said Silver, wearily. He rather thought that if Flint hadn’t had a parrot’s face right now, he might have looked smug. “And to answer your question, it is a purely ordinary illness, and the Captain simply needs a day or two to recover, under the care of Mrs. Barlow.”

“Ah, so the children are running amok until daddy’s home?” Jack’s smile was conspiratorial, but to be fair, most of his smiles were like that whether or not he was plotting something.

Flint’s string of curses almost made up for the fact that he’d had to hear that sentence with his own ears.

“I suppose that’s apt, if 'daddy' is an internationally pursued, uncommonly murderous pirate captain, with a desire for revenge the size of the British Empire,” drawled Silver. “But what would that make me? ‘Mother’?

Jack, to his credit, saw the dangerous glint in Silver’s eye, and drew back with a mollifying hand raised, his mouth open to express his regrets. Flint, however, let out a sudden raucous laugh so loud that both Jack and Silver flinched.

“I can have you stuffed, you know,” said Silver, but Flint didn’t stop laughing for a long time, even after Jack had hastily excused himself. 

-

Mrs. Barlow was outside when he arrived, hauling buckets of water to her garden. When she saw him, she set the buckets down, wiped her forehead on a sleeve, and came toward him. 

“Mr. Silver,” she said.

“Mrs. Barlow.”

“You’d better come in.” She led the way.

“It is bad news, I take it,” he said, but followed her anyway.

“No, not quite. It is less simple than we’d hoped, however. I’ve made dinner, for we will be having another guest shortly.” Mrs. Barlow gestured at the table where four places were set. He wondered if one was for Flint.

“And who is this guest?”

“Someone who can tell us where you might find a Tree of Ramón. She is the housekeeper of John Talbot, a farmer here. She’s half-native, and a free woman. When I asked today, everyone I spoke with directed me to her, but she said it was not such a simple thing to find, that you’d need _ instructions_.”

“Instructions, not directions?” asked Silver. 

Mrs. Barlow’s look was serious. “Precisely.”

“Well,” said Silver. “I suppose it’s better that it’s a nuisance instead of a dead-end.”

Flint had been quiet for some time, but he said, “Nuisance,” and gazed accusingly at Silver.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Silver. “And thank every star she didn’t turn you into a pig. The men would have roasted you before I even got you back on the ship.”

-

The housekeeper was a straight-backed woman of middle years named Felicia Homero. When Mrs. Barlow first ushered her in, she looked wary, but seemed to relax at the sight of Mrs. Barlow’s humble, comfortable dining table, bathed in late afternoon light.

“Welcome, Mrs. Homero. This is Mr. Silver,” She hesitated, “And...Mr. Silver’s parrot.”

“Lovely to meet you,” said Silver, rising from the table.

“Charmed” squawked Flint from his perch on the back of a dining chair, which caused Mrs. Homero to jump, squint, and then bark out a surprised laugh.

They made an odd picture, even without Flint. An English woman, a pirate of nebulous parentage, and a half-native woman sitting in this little run-down cottage, eating a mix of English and Caribbean cuisine, while Flint picked at an array of fruits, seeds, and vegetables on his own plate. Occasionally, he plucked something from Silver’s plate, but did not seem to like the spices.

Silver and Mrs. Barlow were both adept at small-talk, though Mrs. Homero was less so, and between them they managed to cover such topics as the weather, the last harvest, and the role of pirates in the economy of the island.

“So...if I may ask, how long has it been?” asked Mrs. Homero, eyes on Silver, though she cut a glance at Flint.

“How long as what been?” he asked, just to be sure she was asking what he thought she was asking.

“How long has it been since that parrot was a man?”

Flint let out a surprised squawk, but Silver was gratified to have his assessment of her validated.

“Five days,” he said, smiling at her. “I take it you’ve seen it before?”

“Last time it was goats,” she said, laughter in her voice. Silver sent a brief prayer of thanks vaguely heavenward that Flint was _ not _ a goat.

“Mrs. Homero guessed, you see,” said Mrs. Barlow. “When I asked about the Tree of Ramón.”

“Do you know where one can be found?” asked Silver. “I was told it’s common in the jungle.”

“It is,” said Mrs. Homero. “But that will not help you. You do not need an ordinary tree. You see, Ramón was the first man _ she _ transformed. There are now many of his kind, because he was turned a long time ago. But to transform a man back, you need a seed from the original tree.”

Flint made a noise that would have been a profanity-laden snarl if he’d been a man, but instead just sounded like an angry wordless hiss.

“Let’s not be rude to the knowledgeable lady, Captain,” said Silver. He looked at her. “Do you know where this _ original _ tree can be found?”

“I have never been to it,” said Mrs. Homero. “But I can tell you how to find it. Understand, this is different than _ where _. It will not be pinned down on a map or navigated to with a chart. You have to follow a...path.”

“I see,” said Silver, who did not see, but rather understood it on the same level as he understood witches and men transformed into parrots. 

“The tree is on a cay. But you cannot go directly to it, or it will be hidden from you forever. Instead, you must sail east through the night. Then, at sunrise, you must bring the ship about, and the sun will show you the cay. The tree is in a clearing at the centre.”

“Guarded by a lion, I suppose,” said Silver, who was feeling somewhat discouraged at this point.

“Oh no,” said Mrs Homero. “A boar.”

“Ah.”

“You must not kill it.”

“Go on,” said Silver.

“That’s all,” she said. “Oh yes, and you must not let the sun set while you are on the island or you will never leave it.”

“How large is the cay?”

“No idea,” she said. Silver appreciated a blunt woman. “This is all third or fourth hand.”

“We leave at dawn,” said Flint, in such a grim, articulate, but...parroty voice, that none of them quite knew how to react.

“Early morning,” corrected Silver after a moment. “When we’ve laid in the supplies. No sense in you being a man again if we’re all to just die of dehydration.

Flint glared at him and then went back to picking at his plate.

“Madam,” said Silver, turning his smile on Mrs. Homero, who looked at him with suspicion. “While you are a respectable housekeeper, and we keep less respectable employment, please believe that having done us this great favour, if you ever need a favour in return, you need only ask.”

She looked less suspicious of that, and nodded in that stately way that housekeepers all over the world seemed to learn. 

“You are welcome, Mr. Silver.” She eyed Flint. “I’ll remember that.” She turned to Mrs. Barlow and said, “Thank you for your excellent dinner, Miranda. I must return home, but I will see you at the market.” They all rose, and Mrs. Barlow showed her out. Silver sat heavily back in his chair, his leg sore from all the walking about he’d done today.

“Obviously, you must go to this cay,” said Mrs. Barlow, when she had returned, more to Flint than to Silver, although her gaze darted to him as well. “And I think I have...something that might help.”

Silver sat up straighter, and Flint lifted his head. What might Mrs. Barlow have, here in this modest cottage?

“It’s a bit late, since you’ve already met a witch,” she said, laughing a short laugh. “But if you are going to an island of enchantments, perhaps it will still help.” She took a small bundle from the kitchen shelf, and laid it on the table.

“What is it?” said Flint, hopping closer to look, even as Silver reached to flip back the cloth.

“You must not touch it,” she continued. “Or you’ll soon hallucinate.” She looked at Flint and pressed her lips together in clear mirth. “If you’re going to keep living out _ The Odyssey _ so directly—” Flint made a scolding noise “—then allow me to be your Hermes. This is wild rue. I do not know if a boar can be coaxed to eat it, or what other uses you might find for it, but take it anyway.”

-

Silver woke from a sharp pain in his nose. This was because Captain James Flint was biting it.

“Dawn,” he squawked, when he had seen Silver was awake.

“Good morning to you too, you feathered bastard,” said Silver, cupping his nose. It didn’t take Silver long to dress, after which Flint firmly situated himself on Silver’s shoulder, and accompanied him as he located and roused the crew.

They managed to sail out before noon, but Silver honestly didn’t think it mattered, since they were off to find a magical island that only existed through a set of cosmologically complicated directions anyway.

He’d told the crew they’d gotten information on a Spanish ship that was en route to Florida. Then he went in to Flint’s cabin and had a rousing one-sided argument about whether or not to pursue said ship, just to maintain the fiction that Flint was still with them, though sick. Flint, for his part, perched on the back of his desk chair and squawked a few curse words, but Silver could read him as a parrot as well as he could as a man, and he was ruffled up with amusement, his eyes half-closed and beak open as if entertained at Silver’s performance.

Silver knew at this point that the men knew something was up—either that Flint was sicker than reported, or perhaps that Silver had killed him and taken over—but they were still fragile after the becalming incident and were less inclined to question Silver or try to confront Flint. At least, not yet. The strange orders he’d be giving tomorrow morning might change that.

They sailed through the day and into the night without incident. However, as the deeper dark set in (offset by a quarter moon), Silver began hallucinating.

At first it was just flashes of light at the edges of his vision, and having been subject to near death from both the elements and deprivation many times quite recently, he ignored those as the obvious signs of finding himself in yet another difficult situation. 

Then, however, came the birds. 

They, too, were just at the edges of his vision, and he was fully prepared to ignore these as well, if not for Flint swooping down with an alarmed squawk to land on his shoulder. Soon after, there were similar sounds of startlement from the rest of the crew, meaning this was not just his own personal hallucination.

“It's just a lost flock of birds,” shouted Silver. “Ignore it!” He tried to say it in a soothing manner, but it was hard to soothe while shouting.

The men uneasily continued whatever task they’d been engaged in, but with their eyes turned toward the sky.

“Steady!” called Billy. 

Most had their hands near a weapon, a palpable tension rising, as the number of strange birds above the rigging grew. Silver did not, but that was only because he knew exactly how quickly he could draw and shoot, if necessary.

“Witchcraft,” said Flint.

“Likely,’ murmured Silver. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Shanty,” he said. 

“Are you suggesting we sing?” 

“Orpheus. Argonauts,” said Flint.

Silver was not cultured enough to have read all the classics, though he would never admit it, and at least he recognised the reference.

“I don’t know many sea shanties,” he said. Then, after a small moment of hesitation, he launched into his best rendition of _ Frigging in the Rigging_. 

And astonishingly, it worked—it was its own kind of magic, just as his telling of tales was. The eerie feeling had cleared by the refrain, and by the third verse the birds seemed to have gone and most of the men were heartily joining in. When he ran out of verses, one of the other men took up _ Jolly Tinker_, then Paxton launched an astonishingly tuneful _ Four Old Whores_. The night took on a rather festive air. A few men formed a chain to pass up cups of rum to those either singing or doing the actual work of sailing, although the wind was pleasant and steady, and there wasn’t much to do aside from keep an eye out.

A new notion occurred to Silver and he knew this was his moment. He settled himself in the middle of the men, glad to be sitting down and said, “Let me tell you a tale.” He launched into a story of a man turned to a goat by an evil witch, and a magical island where any who set foot on it would become rich men. By the time he got to the part with a completely narratively necessary seductive sorceress, the men were rapt, and the birds were long gone.

-

“Quartermaster,” said Billy, ducking his head down a bit to speak to Silver in a low voice.

“What is it, Billy?” Silver was enjoying a brief moment of peace with a small cup of rum, Flint perched silently on his shoulder.

“Have you taken a look at the stars recently?”

“No?” said Silver. He squinted up at them. Not having been a pirate until several months ago, navigation was not his strong suit. He could read a chart now, but not the stars. “What about them?”

“They’re in the wrong places.”

“...Oh.”

He eyed Billy. Billy was a pragmatic sort. He likely did not have any fantastical notions swimming through his head about the tall tale of a magical island of riches, and he rarely over-imbibed rum. Silver would most certainly not be telling him that they were on a magical journey to turn Captain Flint back into a man. For one thing, Billy would probably consider Flint improved by parrotdom. For another, none of the other men had gotten nearly so angry at being placed in unnecessary danger by the Captain, save for perhaps Silver himself. 

“We’ve seen stranger things, Billy,” said Silver. “Even in the last several hours. Let’s not alarm the men. We sail on until morning, and then if the Spanish ship does not present itself, we can turn straight around and go back.”

“Shouldn’t you consult with the Captain?” asked Billy.

“I already have,” said Silver, smoothly. Flint winged away with a swear word, startling them both, but didn’t interfere.

“Alright, be it upon your own heads,” Billy said, and wandered away to rejoin the majority of the crew, who were still feeling festive. Instruments were involved. Happily, that meant that Billy was likely the only one who had noticed something amiss with the heavens.

He did, however, now wonder if they were missing any crucial instructions on the return journey.

“Flint,” he said, voice low. Flint gave his customary angry parrot mutter, but then came down to perch on the gunwale nearby. “If we are reenacting some sort of mythological pilgrimage, what must we do to return safely? You’ve more classical education than I.”

Flint looked off into the distance, a move so familiar, Silver could almost see Flint-the-man doing it.

“Take, eat, touch nothing,” he said, after a long moment. “Don’t look back.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Avoid the deadly sins.” His beak parted and a parroty chuckle emerged. Silver found himself smiling, and not just because of the absurdity of asking a bunch of pirates to avoid the seven deadly sins, but also because he’d just appealed to their greed to align them to this journey.

-

The night stretched on, and the ship continued east. Then, not long before dawn, a great wind rose. This was not in itself odd, but the strength and smell suggested they were near a land mass, and they knew they could not be. To their credit, the tired and slightly drunk crew rallied and ascended into the rigging to keep them sailing true east.

Silver stirred himself and walked the length of the deck, shouting up to the men that at first light they would turn around and sail due west. A few who were slightly less drunk and tired gave him puzzled looks, but did not question him. Billy scrutinised him for a long moment, but ultimately nodded. That done, Silver climbed up to stand in the forecastle and watch for the dawn. It wouldn’t be long now. 

Flint joined him as the sky lightened, with early morning clouds grey, and the edges slowly beginning to glow. They watched in silence, staring together out into the endless horizon of the Atlantic. And there—a sliver of light.

“Bring her about!” he bellowed. The crew swung into a flurry of action, tacking to turn in the wind, Billy at the wheel. Just as the ship turned fully, it became possible to see a small ridge of land, barely illuminated in the new light.

“Land!” called Paxton from near the crow’s nest. 

Those not already in the rigging, or otherwise occupied, scrambled upward for a look. Silver fetched out the spyglass.

It was still too dark, with the sun at their back, to see much detail, but it didn’t matter—what he could see of it looked like any other island in the general area, with a strip of sand, and a darker hint of low trees behind it.

“What say you men? Do we make for it?” bellowed Silver. He only asked because he knew what the answer would be. There was a general cheer from those who hadn’t traded their places for their hammocks.

Flint settled on his shoulder.

“What are the chances of all of us leaving this island after we’ve set foot on it?”

“Slim,” coughed Flint. 

“I suppose it’s not worse than boarding an enemy ship.” But at least there he knew he was only facing fellow men, with similar weapons. “Let’s restore your manhood,” said Silver, and dodged Flint’s attempt to bite his ear.

He went off to place himself at the helm of the first boat going ashore. 

-

In the end only four men followed him inland. He’d detailed a band of men to stay onboard and guard the ship, and another to stay on the beach to guard their retreat, consisting mostly of those who’d had too good of a time the night before, but also Billy, being one of the only ones who could organise the crew worth a damn.

At first, it was quite disappointingly normal. Then the voices started up. They blended in very well with the natural noises of a jungle, but unlike the sighing and rustle of branches, Silver gradually became aware that those noises were _ intelligible_. 

“..._ he’s a thief…” _

“..._ all that Spanish gold won’t do you any good at the bottom of the ocean _…”

“..._ you don’t _ deserve _ a proper burial _…”

It was a good thing Silver had long since decided to be on his own side, first and foremost, so these niggling little voices did not have the effect on him that they might have had. It’s not as if they were producing any new material. Also, Silver did not much care if he went mad at this point the proceedings, and with circumstances as they were, he was not sure he would notice if he did.

The rest of the men, on the other hand…

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” shouted Grennley. 

Flint squawked at Silver, which was clearly a _ do something_. “Yes, yes, I’ll handle it,” he muttered.

“Grennley!” he barked, taking the man by the shoulders. And then more gently, “It’s a trick. Like the strange birds last night.” He paused and then dug inside a coat pocket. “Here, put these in your ears.” He came up with a handful of lead shot, and held it out to the others as well.

Grennley calmed down, and the rest of the men seemed easier with their ears plugged. They walked on, happily oblivious to the things the jungle was saying to them, except Silver, who would rather hear the snide voices than _ not _ hear something else, and Flint, who arguably had no way to block them out and who shifted uneasily but did not leave Silver's shoulder.

They’d been going vaguely uphill, but abruptly they seemed to come out to the other side of the island. Before them was a narrow strip of beach, and then the ocean. Silver scanned it, but it was empty, so they hadn't gotten turned around and come out on the same stretch.

“What now?” asked Ferris, while Silver rapidly recalculated his expectations for this island.

“Illusion,” said Flint.

“Really?” Silver squinted into the distance. It looked real enough, but he supposed he would need to test it. He walked down onto the beach and without hesitating, into the surf. It was a curious feeling, to see his ankles surrounded by breaking waves, but not to be able to feel them.

“If it’s not ocean, what is it?” asked Paxton, with more shrewdness than Silver had heretofore credited him with.

Silver shifted on his feet and considered. “Grass. Possibly.”

Flint descended from his shoulder to land, and though it looked as if he were breast-deep in water, he was unaffected. After a moment, he launched himself back into the air and few toward the jungle, where he plucked a branch off a tree with a vicious twist of his beak, and then flew back toward the ocean. He dropped it into the ocean, and the most curious thing happened: the ocean began to ripple in unnatural directions, and before their eyes the landscape changed into a wide clearing, ringed on all sides by more jungle.

Also, at the far end of the clearing, there was a large boar.

“No boar should ever be that large,” Silver said conversationally.

The men, clearly having similar thoughts, had already retreated a few steps into the shade of the trees, leaving Silver isolated. Flint circled once and came back to perch on Silver’s shoulder.

“Thank god you don’t have to cook it,” said Flint, which was the longest sentence he’d managed thus far as a parrot.

“Fuck off,” said Silver. He didn’t like to take his eyes off the boar, which did not seem to have seen them yet. “Better yet, fly up and see if the Tree of Ramón is behind it. That monster could hide any number of magical trees.”

“Christ,” Flint said, but he launched himself into the sky, flying up further than Silver had ever seen him go before, and he winged a slow circle in the sky.

“Tree,” he said, when he’d swooped back down. “Go around.”

“Alright,” he said. “Somehow, I don’t think it will be quite so simple.”

Silver edged back to the woods as quietly as he could, keeping half an eye on the boar, who still appeared to be unaware of their presence, as it snuffled into the grass.

“We go around,” he hissed to the men.

And they tried. The problem was, they didn’t seem to get anywhere. The jungle did not provide easy passage, and thus it was impossible not to look down in the course of picking their way over roots and debris. However, each time Silver raised his eyes to mark the boar, it was in the same position it had been, and there was no sign of the tree. 

“Suppose you fly over and eat the seed,” Silver said. 

“Get back,” said Flint.

“Hmm, yes, well, then _ you’d _ have to deal with the boar.”

Flint bit him.

“Uncalled for!” said Silver.

“Bastard,” said Flint. 

“What we need is a distraction,” said Silver. “At the correct moment.” He looked at Paxton. “How are you at climbing trees?”

“Rubbish,” he said, quickly. “_And _ I’m afraid of snakes.”

“I’m not,” said Ferris, stoutly.

“Good man,” said Silver, clapping him on the shoulder. “Out you go, then. Just get the boar’s attention, and then it’s up into the highest tree you can find on the opposite side of the clearing.”

“Here now, I thought you wanted a lookout,” protested Ferris.

“And that’s exactly what you will be,” said Silver. “Once you’re up the tree, give us a shout if the boar turns back toward us. Then we’ll distract it long enough for you to climb down and rejoin us.” Silver gave him his most reassuring smile.

“I don’t know…” he said.

“Here, I’ll help you get started,” said Silver, and gave a great shout. “Hey, beast!!”

The boar looked up disinterestedly from its foraging. It swung its head vaguely in their direction, but did not seem to be able to see them at this distance. It lifted its snout in the air, sniffling, until with an ominous grunt, it slowly turned its massive body toward them. 

Then it began to move. Purposefully.

“Paxton, Greenley, to port,” said Silver, very calmly. “Ferris and Burgess, to starboard. Run fast and fleet-footed. I don’t think it sees well, but it appears to have very good hearing. Go!" 

As the men took off, Silver stayed where he was and fetched out the rue from Mrs. Barlow. He glanced up as the men dashed around the sides of the boar. They were giving it as wide a berth as they could while still staying firmly inside the clearing, and just as Silver had intended, the boar seemed not only confused by their presence, but undecided about which group to pursue, if any.

Then Silver fetched out a small brown thing that had lain crumpled in his coat pocket since yesterday morning.

“I hope you appreciate the lengths I went to in order to procure a truffle on a new world island,” he told Flint. He laid down the truffle on a particularly flat patch of field, and then artfully arranged the rue over it. 

He looked back up and saw the boar had lost track of both sets of men, as he had hoped. It stood uncertainly, as if it had forgotten what it had been doing. “Hello, beast!” called Silver. “This way, if you please.”

When he was certain he had its attention, and it had taken a few tentative steps toward him, Silver hastily backed toward the treeline and then began inching left, watching the boar’s progress. It was even larger than he’d understood. It was hard to gage its size across a meadow of indeterminate size. The thing was the size of house, of a small caravel. He let out a slow breath when it discovered the truffle and seemed to gobble almost everything in its vicinity—rue, dirt, and grass. 

Silver, having never poisoned a giant boar before, had no idea of the appropriate dosage, or what the effects might be. He kept edging along, most of his attention on the boar, Flint on his shoulder. At first, Silver was sure it had failed, and was already thinking of alternate plans that got proportionally more complex with each moment they were delayed. By the time the boar started listing to one side, Silver had concocted a scheme that required quantities of sail, Billy’s startling height, and Flint’s newfound parrot ability to throw his voice. 

“I believe that is our mark,” said Silver, and set off across the field. Unfortunately, it seemed the boar had not entirely succumbed to the rue yet. An angry snort alerted him, as did Flint’s alarmed squawk. Silver glanced behind him to see the boar thundering (angrily, drunkenly) after them. He didn’t even waste his breath swearing. He ran as fast as his false leg would let him.

When he finally had to slow down, or collapse, he glanced back again only to watch the boar slow, stagger, and then execute a slow fall onto its side, after which it appeared to go to sleep. 

“I hope you keep Mrs. Barlow well supplied with everything that good woman deserves,” said Silver. Flint shifted his weight and didn’t say anything. After another long moment spent catching his breath and making quite sure the boar was not planning to get back up, he turned back toward their destination.

There was a suggestion of a tree far in the distance, and he thought he also saw a few of the men ahead. However, the further he walked, the less sure he was of either of these things. Though the sun was as bright as any noon sun on an island in the Caribbean, the clearing itself took on a quality of mist that was difficult to even describe.

“Witchcraft,” said Flint, managing to sound derisive even as a parrot. 

“Agreed. What do you suggest?” asked Silver. “Blindfolds? Prayer?”

“One foot in front of the other,” said Flint.

“A difficult precipe, when we’ve got one foot between the two of us.”

Flint made a derisive noise.

By this time, it wasn’t even possible to see the edges of the clearing any more and they’d been walking far too long, even taking into account the size of the clearing. For all Silver knew, they were wandering in an entirely new land, an undiscovered continent. But it was this very lack of anything that made it possible to finally discern the blurry tree-like shape ahead. Silver quickened his step.

As with the boar, it was rapidly becoming apparent that the tree was massive, though it did look like the drawing Horace had supplied him with. Three questions flashed across his mind: how large had Ramón _ been _ ? How long ago _ had _ he been transformed? And just how _ old _ was the witch? It was probably best that these remained unanswered.

Under the tree’s sprawling branches, it was chilly and yet still humid, leaving Silver feeling clammy, as he did when he had a fever. The sun seemed distant. And it was then that another problem started to occur to Silver, as it clearly did to Flint at nearly the same time.

“Bloody fuck,” said Flint, as Sliver almost fell headlong over what must be an infamous seed of Ramón. They looked roughly like walnuts, but they were the size of goddamned canon balls. 

Silver jabbed one with his false foot and regretted it immediately, as he almost fell over, sending Flint flapping away with an indignant squawk. Also like a cannonball, it was heavy and hard.

“Taking it with us is not an option. Cracking it open would be difficult, although perhaps we should persuade the boar to give it a try.” Silver paused and looked around. “Maybe one of the seeds has already broken open?”

So they picked their way among the shadowed roots of the tree. Most of the seed pods were intact. A few were rotted to the point of no return. But soon enough they found one that looked fresh and had cracked nearly in half. Silver heaved up a nearby seed and brought it down hard on the other, once and then again, until it opened. 

They both eyed the mottled interior. It did not look vastly more edible than the outside, but that was not Silver’s problem.

“Well, Captain? Dig in. You’ll be a man again in no time.” 

After a considering silence, Flint ducked in and gave Silver’s earring one last vicious tug—

“Ow!”

—And glided down to perch beside the fruit. He ducked his head and, clutching the edge with one talon, delicately nibbled some of the nut meat. It didn’t appear to taste terrible, as Flint continued eating. They had no way of knowing if a single bite was sufficient or if Flint had to consume the entirety of it, though Silver doubted he would be able to—the seed pod was larger than the entire body of Flint in parrot form. 

While Flint ate, Silver kept a watchful eye on their surroundings even as he turned his mind to their return trip. Logic dictated they retrace their steps, but as Flint had said, fairy stories and tall tales seemed to suggest it was better to go forward and not look back. In either case, “back” was a purely theoretical concept under this tree. Silver knew which direction he _ thought _ they had arrived from, but could not swear to it. The light was the same in every direction, and there was no sign of the men _ or _ the boar. He supposed it did not much matter which way they picked as long as it was _ away _ from the tree.

He was trying to gage how much time had passed when something whooshed by his head and hit the ground beside him. He jumped back and swore. Flint cawed and flapped sideways. It was one of the seeds and it had almost hit him. Another fell a few feet away, and then another.

“I feel that might have been the magical equivalent of asking your guests to depart,” said Silver, his heart still rocketing along. “It’s a pity the witch wasn’t more specific about the circumstances of your transformation.” 

“Can’t eat more,” mumbled Flint. To Silver he seemed sluggish, or drunk. 

“It’s had some effect.” When Flint made no move to fly to his shoulder, Silver extended an arm and Flint climbed clumsily up it. However, when he got to Silver’s shoulder, he swayed and would have fallen off if Silver hadn’t gotten a hand up in time. 

“At least at this size, I can carry you,” said Silver. “Kindly keep your beak to yourself.” And so saying, he unbuttoned his shirt and stowed Flint inside. Flint barely stirred, a strange feathered presence against Silver’s chest, as Silver turned and struck out determinedly away from the tree. 

The twilight of the meadow seemed never ending, and the boar was nowhere to be found. Silver walked and walked. His leg began to ache, sweat ran down his neck, and the only reason he knew Flint was alive was the feeling of his small body breathing. He very carefully did not look back.

He was so tired, and was concentrating so hard on his footing that he did not realise he was back in the more ordinary jungle until his foot caught on a root. He jolted back to reality, and it felt oddly as if he’d been asleep. He put a hand to his chest, and found that Flint was no longer there. He’d only managed several heartbeats of panic before a hand came down on his shoulder and he half turned to see Flint himself, man-shaped and just as he’d looked before he’d been transformed.

“I don’t remember—your return,” said Silver, looking Flint over, reassuring himself that all was returned to its correct place.

“I don’t either,” Flint said his voice rough, “We can discuss it later. Right now we need to find the ship and set sail.”

Silver tried to gage the light coming in through the tree canopy and at a guess, it was much later than it should have been. So they walked in the downhill direction, squinting through the trees for a hint of beach, and came out onto it a quarter of an hour later, just down from where the ship’s boats waited. Silver hailed Billy, and was relieved to see that the four who entered the jungle with him had made it back to the beach.

“We thought you’d been trampled for sure,” said Paxton, clapping Silver on the back. 

Billy, annoyingly astute as he was, eyed Flint, and no doubt wondered how he’d gotten from his supposed sick bed on the ship onto the shore without a ship’s boat _ and _ without being seen. He might have figured it out, too, if he were of a more fanciful nature. As it was, his expression was one of suspicion, but that was hardly new.

“Are all the men accounted for, Billy?” asked Flint, sliding back into his role, as if he hadn’t spent the previous week as a parrot.

“They are, captain. Are we leaving?”

“I think that’s best.”

“Aye, captain.” 

They were back on the ship before the sun had touched the horizon, but Silver would consider the island too close until they had sailed out of sight. 

“Southwest,” said Flint, when asked for direction. “We must have missed the Spanish ship. We’ll either find it there, or have a better chance of taking another prize.”

-

As it happened, they serendipitously did indeed run across a Spanish merchant ship as they made their way back to Nassau. It was carrying a variety of goods that had made it worth their effort, but it was a particular item that caused Flint to come back across the gangplank grinning like he’d single-handedly killed another shark. 

“What? What is it? Gold?” asked Silver, from his supervisory vantage on the forecastle.

“No,” said Flint still grinning. “Mangoes. Twenty cartons of them.”

“Eleanor will be pleased.”

“And that’s not all.”

Silver tried to think what it could be, but failed. What else would Flint look so pleased about?

“Go on,” Silver prompted.

Flint looked like he was having trouble controlling his mirth. Before Silver could enquire again, there was a shout from Billy. 

“Are we taking these, then?”

Silver looked across at the deck of the captured ship, past the kneeling prisoners, and the Walrus’ own crew swarming busily around. And there, propped on some of the mango cartons, were four cages, each with a parrot inside it.

He did not know what expression his face was making, but he knew that it was of great amusement to Flint, who finally lost his battle and started laughing. Silver glared at him and Flint laughed so hard he doubled over.

“I’d hardly think this would be amusing to _ you_,” said Silver.

“It is possibly the most amusing coincidence to ever happen to me,” returned Flint, between gasps of laughter.

“Keep them!” called Silver finally. “Eleanor can fence anything.” And then, lower, “I’m going to keep one, name it Flint, and teach it the filthiest curses an entire island full of pirates can come up with.”

“You do that,” said Flint. He sobered minutely and added, “In some ways, it was a much better life than this one. I liked flying.”

“But you ate the seed.”

“I have too much to accomplish. And I can’t do any of it as a parrot,” said Flint.

“Then I’d suggest avoiding offering insult to witches in the future.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

-

Eleanor was so overcome by the crates of mango that she gave the crew a free evening in her establishment (and handed some of her better liquor over to Flint and Silver). Mrs. Barlow, when they made their way out to her the following morning to tell her the tale’s end, expressed relief, and accepted thanks (and mangoes) for her contributions. They sent along a bottle of Spanish wine to Mrs. Homero.

And Silver did, indeed, adopt one of the parrots and name him Flint. For many years after, Flint the parrot was known to be able to shock even hardened pirates with some of his more creative maledictions.


End file.
